Tag Archives: Betrayal

All We Need

9 Dec

Friends, I know that recent times have been tough, what with the blatant disregard for morality exhibited by Donald Trump and his followers’ complete acceptance of him and said disregard as well as the hate crimes that have been committed since his election win. It has been well hard to think very positively about the future, near or far.

However, I am here to tell you today that there is something that can save us. It’s not Jesus, no, nor is it the newest, shiniest product you can buy exclusively from this website. No,

it’s love.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am in love.

As disappointing as it may be for Charlize Theron, it is a man who has stolen my heart. Of course, appearances are superficial, and far be it from me to be so shallow; however, with this man, his looks are really just an external reflection of his internal perfection (I’m referring to his emotional intelligence here, though I’m sure all his organs are also equally flawless). His salt and pepper hair is sexy, yes, but it also reveals his years of experience and wisdom. His weedy yet sturdy stature is perfect for providing a sense of security while still assuring that one could knock him flat if the situation called for it. His blue eyes, with their gorgeous limbic rings, offer windows to his sensitive soul. He is clearly committed to success in his work as well as in his personal relationships. No one could deny his kindness nor the calm that envelops anyone to whom he gives just one look.

Basically, he’s beautiful.

René Maltête: Jardin du Luxembourg Paris, 1960

René Maltête: Jardin du Luxembourg Paris, 1960

In a strange twist of fate, this man is Christopher’s Uncle Trevor. Recently, I was in Christopher’s room organising his sock drawer, when I noticed a photo on his bedside table and from that first moment, I was transfixed. You know that my heart is not easily swayed, but, dear readers, something beyond my own logic took over that morning.

Love is often consigned to greeting cards and notes of apology from spouses who’ve been caught playing away with the local slapper. But the truth is love is something that we all need. It can improve every moment of our lives. It reminds us that someone other than ourselves matters, and that the world is greater than our own needs and worries.

Love, of course, does not make Donald Trump go away or keep bastards (criminal or elected) from plying their trades. But love can make those things just a little easier to face, and the companionship and connection with another person that come with love also make those things easier to fight.

So I wish you all the bliss that I am currently feeling. In love and with love, we can all carry on working to improve our world.




UPDATE 10 December 2016:

Unfortunately, I am afraid I must retract the above statement.

As it turns out, the man in the photograph on Christopher’s nightstand, with whom I fell instantly in love, is not in fact his Uncle Trevor. After my pestering him for a few days to set up a chance for the man and me to meet, Christopher confessed all.

Apparently, the picture was one he’d torn from a 1960s Kays Catalogue (I am still a bit confused about why it was kept by Christopher’s bedside, but he assures me there is a valid reason). He claimed he thought it’d be “funny” to play “little joke” on the woman who has offered him free room and board for these many years. It appears Christopher has never even met this man, and (he thoughtfully reminded me) in all likelihood, the man formerly known as Uncle Trevor is no longer alive.

I felt I must admit this to you, after my (now embarrassing) display of joy and hopefulness. I apologise profusely and confess that I am both humiliated and heartbroken. I have banned all mail-order shopping from this household until I have overcome this traumatic experience.

Should A Boy’s Best Friend Really Be His Mother?

14 Mar

I have never been a huge proponent of days set aside to celebrate reproduction (Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, etc).  To me, the simple fact that one participated in the merging of egg and sperm hardly makes one deserving of a whole day of recognition. However, I am clearly alone in this view. Germany has its Muttertag, America its Mother’s Day, and today we have Mothering Sunday.

As you know, I have a mother and I have resigned myself to sending her a card (and possibly ringing her, if I’ve enough vodka in the house) on the second Sunday of May. I will do that, because that is what one does. However, I do feel that some people take the whole “honour thy mother” thing a tad too far.

I am not unaware that mothers make sacrifices for their children. And I acknowledge that most go to some trouble to care for their offspring. Fair dues. However, my mechanic regularly services my car (and even buffs the interior leather), and I certainly don’t feel compelled to “honour” him with perfume and flowers on an annual basis. Why mothers should be celebrated simply for doing their job is beyond my comprehension.

Have you noticed it’s often men who feel obliged to go out of their way on Mother’s Day (without any regard for the fact that the woman who actually pays their salary needs to be driven into town for brunch with her new editor)? Maybe my confusion lies in the fact that I am a daughter. Clearly mothers have different expectations of daughters, which could cause the relationship to be somewhat strained. I asked Christopher why sons are the worse offenders in terms of showering adoration on their mums; silence was his only riposte. I guess, bringing him into a world of beauty and sophistication means nothing, whereas the simple act of buying and laundering his pants for sixteen years apparently deserves lifelong gratitude.

Of course, having never known the apparent “joy” one experiences after giving birth to a younger and generally smaller human, I cannot speak from personal experience of the so-called maternal bond. Clearly, there must be something to this veneration of “a mother’s love” for nothing without some basis in reality could be tolerated by the public for so long. It isn’t that I begrudge a mother and son wanting to acknowledge their mutual affection—-more power to them. However, I simply think it needs to be kept in check (particularly if it interferes with my work schedule). The umbilical cord must be cut at some time or heaven knows what could happen.

As I said, though, I know I am the lone voice of sanity with regards to this issue. So, “Happy Mother’s Day” to all of you mothers out there. A good day to you all. Enjoy this afternoon with your son. Please don’t let me and the future of my career affect you in any way. I’ll make my own way to my meeting, don’t you worry. Savour your time together, because tomorrow he’ll come back to me. Never you fear.

Betrayal in the Village

26 Aug

I am finally home and settled from the trip. Crossing the Atlantic is always an adventure and, whilst I did enjoy seeing friends and family and experiencing the sights and sounds, there’s nothing like drinking out of your own teacup.

My timing was perfect. While I don’t flatter myself that I was the sole motivation, I was particularly pleased to be back to witness the exciting Ashes victory. As always, I send my best to the boys in white with the green-stained knees and the red smear along the rise. There’s nothing that swells the pride more than watching Ricky Ponting pull his Bush-the-morning-of-9/11 face.

However, I am afraid I do have to report that not all was champagne and confetti when I got back. I am very displeased by some more local news concerning the Old Vicarage of my village. The building had been for sale for quite some time, and there were rumours circulating about possible purchasers for months. I was distressed to find upon my return that not only had the property been bought, but the new owners have already moved in. I confess to feeling slightly let down by the Parish Council—surely a village resident as important as I (and this is not pride speaking, it’s purely objective fact) should have been consulted before any final decisions were made. I was not, and the first I knew about it was on the morning of my return (Christopher confesses he chose to deliberately withhold the information from me during our twice-daily chats as he knew it would only upset my already delicate traveler’s tummy—bless).

I am very disappointed. It’s not the owners’ background, family situation, lifestyle choice, economic demographic or professional standing which causes me dismay, for I know none of these. Additionally, I have yet to see any dramatic changes to the Vicarage itself since their arrival (it remains St George’s Cross- and Staffie-free). What is sticking in my craw is simply their name.

Before you accuse me of being a nit-picker (which, may I just point out, is a graphically offensive description for someone whose only crime in finding details valuable), I would like to tell you the family’s name. It is Coxender.

Now, clearly there is a sexual connotation present (if you missed it, I suggest you go to your nearest closet, shut the door tightly and whisper the name aloud). It’s awkward, of course, and may lead to their children being bullied but quite frankly the abuse of children by other children has never been a grave concern of mine.

What does disquiet me is the fact that Coxender was the name of an old love rival of mine. Years ago, one of my gentleman friends abandoned me in favour of a woman of questionable morals whose name was Oleanna Coxender. In retrospect, of course, I have no doubt that I was the more desirable catch and that young William was purely blinded by the pressures of masculine pride and the charm of the absence of knickers. Still, I was heartbroken and have done my best to sweep the whole ugly experience under the Oriental carpet. Now, unfortunately, I am forced to confront this hurt every time I am driven through the village. The cruelty is almost beyond belief.

It’s so disheartening that people’s definition of community seems to no longer extend to anyone other than themselves. A truly sad day.